


hypnotised

by sunflowerbright



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Feuilly Week, Huge Dorks, Lots of it, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Smoking, Swearing, Written for the lovely Nathalie, cameos by the ensemble, dorks being in love, emetophobia warning, i just can't stop, omg pining, so much pining, warning for blood and injuries, warning for mild drug-use (only shortly mentioned), what is it with me and writing piningfic?, written for feuilly week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly thinks Bahorel is in love with someone else, and this is a problem, because <i>he</i> is in love with Bahorel. </p>
<p>Bahorel, however, thinks quite the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hypnotised

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yournameisinmyhands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yournameisinmyhands/gifts).



> Written for Feuilly week 2013, for a prompt made by the lovely [Nathalie](http://fetishtaire.tumblr.com/). This is possibly not really what you were thinking of with that prompt, but I hope you like it either way!

 

 

Feuilly thinks, Bahorel is in love with someone else.

He’s in love with whoever it is that is always texting him, making him smile like that. He’s in love with whoever’s picture is in his folder, the one he always stops at when he’s looking through his phone, pausing for a few minutes, warmth in his eyes, as if he can’t _not_ look at it.

He’s most likely in love with a tall brunette with a spark in her eye and a mean right hook. Or he’s in love with someone not even half his size, a little pint-sized human who taught him how to knit and weaves flowers into his hair. It could, Feuilly knows, because he _knows_ Bahorel, be anyone, from the football coach at the other end of town with a crooked smile, to the manager at their local bar, the tall boy who wears a blue dress every Sunday and gave Bahorel the ring with a bird-skull that he always wears.

Feuilly has seen the ring a lot. He’s traced the lines of it with his eyes, whenever Bahorel was sitting right beside him, hand resting on the table, right next to Feuilly’s. The thought of reaching out and letting their fingers touch had almost been too much, and so he’d distracted himself, looking at tan skin and bruised knuckles and surprisingly clean nails with orange nail-polish half-way chipped off, and that ring, the dull silver reflecting his own eyes, too large and almost frightened.

Feuilly thinks Bahorel is in love with someone else, and this is a problem, because he is in love with Bahorel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bahorel likes to be alone.

This would be surprising, because he usually surrounds himself with people – but when you think about it, it really isn’t. Liking something, doesn’t exclude also liking the opposite. It’s not an either-or. It’s a both-thing. Because Bahorel likes to meet people and give them a piece of his mind or a hug that can crush the life out of them. He likes to sit with his friends and listen to them, and feel their energy, like a pulsing heartbeat that somehow transfers to him as well.

But he likes to be alone too. Because, some days, alone is all he has.

The phone rings twice before it’s picked up.

“Bahorel?” Feuilly’s voice sounds almost odd through the lines of the phone, but Bahorel can feel himself smiling just at something almost like it.

“Yeah,” he’s playing with a loose thread in his jeans, suddenly feeling like a teenager with a crush: and Feuilly isn’t even in the room to see him. “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out later? At Crosby’s?”

There’s a short silence on the other end. And then.

“No, sorry, I can’t,” Feuilly says, “Not tonight, I have other plans.”

His heart isn’t dropping to the bottom of his stomach at all.

“Oh,” he says, and really wants to say _plans with who?_ And it’s not because he’s jealous, it’s because he likes to torture himself and look at the deep, smart people that Feuilly would rather be with than him.

_Fuck._

“Raincheck?” Feuilly’s voice is lighter now, almost hopeful, and Bahorel can’t stop his own smile, even though he still feels discontent.

“Sure. Tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there.”

He says goodbye and hangs up and sits with the phone in his hand for a long time afterwards.

The problem is that Bahorel, on occasion, likes to be alone, but lately it’s been hard. Because alone also means alone with your thoughts.

And his thoughts lately are mostly centred on the fact that Feuilly is in love with someone else.

 

 

 

 

 

_“So,” he reaches out and wipes some dust off the bookshelf. “Um… this is my place.”_

_Feuilly – that’s the name he introduced himself with, but Bahorel has no idea if it’s his real one or not, and he doesn’t really mind either way – smiles at him slightly._

_“I’ll clean up,” Bahorel says then, almost sheepishly, and Feuilly laughs._

_Bahorel thinks it’s a beautiful sound._

 

 

 

 

“You are doing that wrong,” Feuilly tells him gravely, watching the joystick in Bahorel’s hand instead of the screen which currently depicted Lara Croft getting her ass kicked – or rather, Bahorel playing Lara Croft getting her ass kicked.

“This game is _difficult_ ,” he protests, and lets out a loud shriek when he gets too close to a cliff and the ‘game over’ flashes on the screen. “Aaaawwww…”

Feuilly laughs and laughs and laughs until his very bones hurt, and when he finally gets himself together, he looks up and sees Bahorel watching him with a smile on his lips, eyes soft.

He suddenly can’t breathe again, and its not because he’s laughing. He’s stopped laughing altogether.

Bahorel reaches up and runs his fingers through Feuilly’s hair, and Feuilly tries not to shiver at the sensation, but fails – at least he stops his eyes from falling closed in delight. He looks at Bahorel instead.

Bahorel, he thinks, looks like he is about to kiss him.

And then he smiles instead. Feuilly thinks it looks sad.

“Want to show me how its done?” he asks and hands Feuilly the joystick, and pulls away slightly, and Feuilly says _sure,_ because why not, Bahorel can’t keep getting his ass handed to him like this, its embarrassing and really, Feuilly is there to save his dignity after all.

He isn’t there for anything else.

 

 

_“I’m moving out,” Feuilly had told him, and those were the words that made Bahorel realise he was in love._

_“Oh,” was all he had said in that moment, and later he would help him pack and hug him tightly on their last night, and maybe lingered a bit longer and brushed his nose against Feuilly’s soft hair, and felt guilty about it afterwards, because Feuilly didn’t even know and…_

_And it was absolutely bonkers, because Feuilly wasn’t going to look twice at Bahorel, he was sure. Not like that anyway._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They’re on the roof smoking, and Feuilly doesn’t even want to know what’s in the cigarettes that Bahorel has just handed him, but he feels light and carefree for the first time in months.

“I love you, you know,” he tells him, head lolled to the side because they’re lying on their back watching all the stars fall from the sky (he thinks this is maybe whatever was in the joint, but he doesn’t really care. It’s pretty either way, real or in his head).

Bahorel tenses, and then he leans his head slightly towards Feuilly.

“I love you too, man,” he says and Feuilly thinks Bahorel is missing the point.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Feuilly has this one curl that just won’t ever stay in place, no matter what he does with his hair, no matter if it’s raining or storming or whatever. It’s always just a bit more unruly, a rebel trying to escape from its other brethren.

Bahorel thinks he’s just thought of a strand of hair as a sentient being, and realises he probably needs an intervention.

Feuilly also has freckles, as many as there are stars in the sky (even though he’d told Bahorel the other day that all the stars had gone out once, but he doesn’t want to think about the stars littering Feuilly’s body ever going pale and cold, not ever), and Bahorel wants to reach out and trace them, play connect-the-dots, count them, lick them, nose his way along their paths and trails, and all the silly and gooey things people usually say about freckles.

He likes the ones on Feuilly’s face, dotting their way over cheeks and across the bridge of his nose the best. He wants to trace them with his thumb, pretty sure his hand is large enough to cover most of Feuilly’s chin: they could rest like that, Feuilly leaning against him and he would most likely huff and roll his eyes at him, because Feuilly is silly enough that he doesn’t even like his own freckles, but Bahorel is pretty sure he could stare at them for hours and hours.

“You look hypnotised,” Feuilly teases him. “Are you drunk?”

Bahorel denies it only enough for Feuilly to believe his own words, and spends the rest of the night watching him laugh and counting the times their eyes meet.

It’s often, he finds. He’s happy about that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Feuilly realises that Bahorel isn’t in love with someone else when he’s sitting on the ground after a rally, bleeding from the head and watching Enjolras and Jehan and Bossuet getting dragged off by the police, and the only clear thoughts in his head is that he needs to get better because Combeferre and Courfeyrac can’t post bail for all of them and he hasn’t seen Joly in three hours and where is Bahorel, did he get dragged off already?

He doesn’t realise Bahorel has sat down beside him before there’s a light pressure on his head.

“You can’t just _do that_ ,” Bahorel says and sounds genuinely distressed and Feuilly wonders what’s happened, before he realises that oh yeah, he’s still bleeding.

“’M fine,” he says and his tongue is all wobbly and he feels heavy all over and that probably means he isn’t fine at all. “Why aren’t you in jail with the others?”

Bahorel stares at him like he’s just dropped down from the moon, and then he starts laughing, short and loud and completely out of place right here.

Feuilly loves him so much in that moment he thinks his heart is hurting even more than his head. It drowns out the other pain quite nicely, but it also feels like his heart is too big for his own body, and he isn’t sure he can breathe and function if that is the case.

“You’re amazing,” Bahorel tells him. “But I do have a bad habit of getting arrested don’t I?”

“Your record is currently higher than Enjolras’s,” Feuilly says, and _that’s_ impressive. “Though he just one-upped you. You’ll have to improve. Not that I want you to get arrested.”

Bahorel frowns slightly, but he still looks at Feuilly all _soft_ like and Feuilly likes it a lot and doesn’t want Bahorel to stop, but he also thinks he might pass out soon, and that would be very undignified here on the pavement, when his friends still needs him to bail them out of jail.

“I couldn’t leave when you were hurt,” Bahorel says. “I had to make sure you were okay.”

Feuilly blinks. “I am okay.” He has a huge hole in his head, but it’s not that bad, and he’ll be fine. Eventually.

“You just went down so suddenly, and I didn’t even see what had happened. It was scary.”

“You don’t get scared,” Feuilly tells him, and finds it weird that he has to _tell_ Bahorel this, because surely Bahorel knows already, but then he’s being kissed and he isn’t really thinking that much about it anymore because…

Oh.

_Oh._

His head is reeling.

When Bahorel pulls away there is blood on his cheek, and Feuilly raises a shaky hand to brush it away.

And then he throws up in his lap.

 

 

 

 

 

At least Bahorel thinks it hilarious. In fact, he’ll include the whole vomiting and having to go to the ER faster than he’s ever gone to the ER before (and he’s gone to the ER a lot in his life) every time he tells the story of their first kiss.

Feuilly thinks, Bahorel is in love with him, and he is in love with Bahorel, so he can ignore the good-natured teasing. Happily.


End file.
